John Has A Ruff Christmas
by Jane Doel
Summary: It's Christmas Eve in London, and John's in a bit of a pickle: what do you get the genius who's impossible to shop for? ((Alternate title: "How To Say 'I Love You' In Bro Speak"))


John stares at the calendar and wills it to be wrong. For someone to have ripped off an extra page or two. "It can't be Christmas Eve already…" he moans, slamming his head of the desk.

His days at the clinic as of late have kept him busy, and his nights with Sherlock ( _sleuthing_ , as much as he wishes they were up late for other reasons) have kept him up, and through it all, he's desperately lost track of the time, and now it's suddenly, completely without warning, Christmas Eve.

He already has presents for almost everyone: a delightful china teapot with rose etchings and a set of "subtle" cannabis-shaped earrings for Mrs Hudson, a football biography for Greg, a gag bow and arrow for Mike (strange request, but John _has_ noticed a distinct increase of red hearts in the man's home…), wayy too many toys for Rosie.

A bouquet of yellow roses on Mary's grave.

But out of all the gifts he's collected over the months, he forgot about the most important person: Sherlock.

No, no, he didn't forget; he's been _putting it off_. Every time he tried thinking about a gift for his flatmate, he could immediately see that the task was insurmountable, so complex that he simply decided to work on other gifts first. When he thought about what he wanted to give him, he quickly knew he was out of his depth.

And now here he was, on Christmas Eve with no gift for the second most important person in his life!

Where does he even start? Now, on Christmas Eve, when all the shops are closed and mail delivery would scoff in your face if you so much as asked for a postage stamp?

Lab equipment would be right up Sherlock's alley, but it feels too impersonal to John, and besides, where would he get it now? He could just wrap a bow on a beaker he already has, or let him keep the mug of his that Sherlock had commandeered for experiments upon John's return to 221B. No, no, Sherlock would see right through that! Besides, he could do better. No go.

Books on wild, inexplicable sciences like agrostology (the study of grass) or oology (the study of eggs) would be appreciated, but perhaps a bit too tedious. Would Sherlock even read them? If he did, would he just delete them? John wanted to get him something really special for him this year, something he'd cherish.

After every piece of absolute shit they'd been through, after all John had _put him_ through, he had to give him something wonderful, something that would express just how much John valued him, respected him, was irreversibly smitten with him.

What kind of gift can do _that?_

And it had to be just the right amount of subtle, too, because John had never actually said anything about any of these feelings, never acted upon them or even mentioned them. How do you tell a genius they're loved without saying you love them?

John can't focus for the rest of his shift. His head is filled with vague ideas, none of them worthy of his best friend, and his clients leave his office with unsatisfied hesitation.

Sarah notices.

"John? Are you alright?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm, uh...just worried about Christmas."

She scoffs and smiles easily. "Yeah, yeah, I feel that. Who isn't?"

"Is it bad that a holiday that's supposed to bring so much joy and peace often causes so much stress and worry?"

Sarah laughs at the same time she squints at him, seeing much farther into John than he wanted her to. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. Guess we've all made a mess of it."

"Hmmph."

In the uncomfortably bright lights of his office, John can see the tired lines around her face, ones collected through years of watching children die on an operating table, of having an arrow pointed at your chest being a good date. But he can also see the lines of laughter, the lovely etchings of holidays spent with family and friends, of finally finding a man who would lay the world at her feet. She looks good.

Despite it all, she looks happy.

"You're not just worried about Christmas, are you?"

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "In a way, I am."

"Oh so it's something special. Some _one?"_

"Am I that obvious?"

"Mm."

"Yeah, you could say that. I want them to feel like someone special, but I think I've messed it all up. I...I've hurt them quite a lot this year, and I can't even remember how much I hurt them in the past… I need this Christmas to go well, but I'm worried I haven't done enough. Gosh, I don't think I've done anything at all, I've been so scared of starting."

She's silent, now, thoughtful, as though holding John's words in her head and judging their weight. "It's Sherlock, isn't it."

John splutters and makes to deny it, but Sarah just laughs at his flabbergasted face.

"You didn't think I didn't know, did you? John, honestly, how could I not know?"

"I've never told anyone! Well, except for maybe Rosie, but she's only just gotten teeth…"

"John...You've never hidden your infatuation with Sherlock very well, even when we were dating."

"Oh my God!" the poor man moans, keeling over and burying his face in his hands over his knees. Sarah doesn't even try to hide her guffawing amusement, the cheeky woman.

"You seriously thought no one had picked up on you two? With all your eye-fucking and teenage drama? _Please_. I've been in on a pool for years now."

" _While_ we were dating? Wait, hold on, a _pool?_ For..For me and Sherlock to.."

"Get married? Kiss? Declare your undying love? Have sex in an alley? Anything really. Just as long as you two finally removed your heads from your arses and got together, really. Which you still haven't done, by the way! The pool's ginormous now; you've no idea how much money some people are set to win by this. Ridiculous really."

"It's still going on?! For how long? Who's part of it?!"

"Now, now, John, we're talking about your Sherlock problems right now, time to move on. What about Christmas with him has you so stressed?"

He glares at her, reluctant to let this go but needing some reassurance. "You know I'm not gonna let this go, right?"

"Naturally, dear, but there are more pressing matters."

"Ach. You're right, unfortunately."

"So what's wrong?"

"Well, you see…"

And so John tells her his plight, his lack of gift-ness and the fear of this previously undiscovered bottomless well of feelings. Saying it out loud makes him feel silly, but it's nice to talk about this with someone, even if he's never even had this discussion with himself before.

"It sounds to me like you're thinking too hard."

"But I need something perfect. Something that'll make him happy, even if I fuck up."

"Psshh. That's easy. You've got something right here." She looks pointedly at John's body.

His face brightens. "Sarah, I think that's a little forward!"

"Not that, you pervert! I just meant _you_. He loves you, you bloody bastard, for reasons I can't understand. He'll love whatever you give him, because it's from you. More than anything, he wants your heart."

The sentiment makes John's heart swell like a balloon full of helium. It rises to the top of his throat, blocking his airway. He wants to believe Sarah; he does, but he can't trust himself. He's not sure if he's just hearing what he so achingly wants to.

"I can't...I can't trust that, Sarah, as much as I want to. And even if that is true, I've hurt him so many times, who's to say I won't hurt him again? Won't accidentally leave him behind and lose him forever? I don't want to be responsible for ruining him."

She scoffs at him again and sits up straighter in her seat, eyes intent on his."You're talking about him like he's a daft little puppy or something. Sherlock is a grown man, and I'm given to believe that he's a pretty smart one, too. He can make his own choices. If he thinks what you've done is unforgivable, he'll make that call. Not you."

She sighs a little and shifts in her seat. "But I shouldn't be the one telling you this. I shouldn't be the one telling you any of this. Look, John, here's my advice. I'm going to say it once, and then I want you to run out of here to be with your lovely little family after getting Sherlock whatever the hell you think he wants. And if you want to leave a nice box of chocolates on my desk the morning you come back, - or afternoon, I'm not picky - I would be monumentally appreciative."

"Noted."

"Okay, here it is: _Talk to the man_. Give him something from the heart. I know that sounds like some Hollywood bullshit, but by God that crap works. If you want to show that man he's loved, _do it_. Don't nammy about it. Give him something to hold onto when he doubts your feelings, to show that you're constant and devoted and that you're not budging an inch from his side, even if there were dinosaur alien monsters trying to tear you apart. Tell him that you want him to be part of your family, and that you want to be part of his."

"That was really lovely until the bit about the dinosaur alien monster."

"Get the fuck out."

John stands, his shoulders lighter than they have been in months. "Thank you, Sarah."

"Do you know what you'll get him?"

He grins easily. "Actually, I have a pretty decent idea, now. That really helped."

"Glad to be of service, John."

He bends down and kisses her cheek, and then begins collecting his coat. His races to the doorway, and just as he leans out into the bright hallway, one step in the future, Sarah asks, "Oh, and John?"

"Yeah?"

"My favorite are the Ghirardelli kind."

John laughs and laughs as he stands in the doorway and brushes something suspiciously similar to tears from his eyes. "Happy Christmas, Sarah." And then he's gone.

Sarah smiles at the open doorway. "Happy Christmas, John."

The next morning is peaceful, especially compared to the unmitigated chaos of the night before. John wakes up early, brain thrumming with nervous energy. He's brought Rosie down into the kitchen and is bouncing her against his hip as he warms a bottle for her.

"Oh, Rosie," he sighs, placing the bottle in her chubby hands. "Do you know where your daft godfather is?"

She gurgles and shoots him a pleasantly blank face.

"Yeah, me either."

Just then, John hears something moving around on the street outside. It sounds like jingle bells, but no one on this block was so cliche as to be playing Santa, and Sherlock had scared away carolers and the Salvation Army years ago. Who would be out so early on Christmas?

Before he can look out the window, he hears someone opening the door and climbing up the stairs. His eyes dart a glance to the drawer that holds his gun. Perhaps it's not appropriate to be so immediately suspicious, but there aren't many people who would dare to enter the flat of 221B so early on Christmas morning, and none of the people John can think of are favorable visitors.

But then Sherlock bursts through the door. His hair is dusted with snow and there is a lovely red blush high on his cheeks. The Belstaff hangs dishevelled off his shoulders, and the scarf is haphazardly draped around his neck and one end touches the floor. He stares at John in surprise, and a touch of embarrassment slackens his mouth.

His arms are stacked high with brightly colored boxes.

"...Good morning, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, John."

John picks up Rosie and places her on the ground beside their Christmas tree. Sherlock peddles by the door and bounces from foot to foot. His discomfort is momentary, as John comes over and takes the gifts from his arms with an enchanted smile, dusting the snow from his flatmate's curls and pressing his hand to the genius's cool cheek.

"You're rather cold, Sherlock."

"It is almost negative seven degrees outside."

"Well then bundle up, you wanker!"

Sherlock's blush intensifies as John goes to put the gifts around the tree. He can see that almost all of them are for Rosie (Sherlock would make a doting father, surely), but some are mysteriously void of indications.

The blogger settles down by the tree and places his daughter in his lap. "Where've you been hiding these gifts, Sherlock? Surely you didn't just buy them."

The detective scoffs and hooks his coat and scarf by the door. John swallows deeply. As always, the man is dressed impeccably. Somehow his outfit is festive even as it remains antithetical to the holiday pajamas John and Rosie are dressed in. The slacks are perfectly form fitting so as to show off his perfectly rounded bottom. A wonderful Christmas present, John swoons.

"Of course not, John. I bought these months ago. I hid them...around."

"Just...around?"

"Mostly at Molly's flat."

"And she was okay with that?"

"Actually she was the one to suggest I even get you all presents in the first place."

John nods and tries to hide his blush. "Ta to Molly then."

John and Rosie play by the tree as Sherlock ducks into the kitchen to make a pot of hot chocolate. The older man is tempted to ask if Sherlock would like to change into his pajamas, but he keeps his mouth shut once he glimpses how the red button down tugs across his chest. If Sherlock's comfortable in that, who is John to persuade him otherwise?

Sherlock sets a mug (in the shape of Santa!) in John's hands and settles across from him and Rosie. There's a look in his eye that makes John swallow even harder, something sincere and vulnerable, tender and all-encompassing. He never wants to look away.

"Who should go first?" Sherlock asks, breaking the comfortable silence.

John clears his throat and reaches for a random gift. His brain is stuck on the one he left behind in his room. He should probably go get it out… But the surprise is so sweet that he decides to save it for the end.

Together, they go through Rosie's presents (of which there are far too many). They discover that she has a particular fondness for the solar system mobile Sherlock bought her, the Curious George books, and the colorful building blocks made of soft, doughy wood. John can already tell she's going to be just as creative and smart and explosively curious as her surrogate father (how would Sherlock feel about being her father?).

Finally all that's left are the gifts for Sherlock and John, from each other. Sherlock looks a little surprised that there's anything for him under the tree, let alone that it's from John. The blonde man feels a twinge in his chest at the thought that Sherlock feels so unloved as to not even expect a gift on Christmas Day from his best friend of seven years.

"I've got something for you, John...I'm not sure how well you'll like it. If you don't, I can fix it…"

"Sherlock, I'm sure I'll love it. Especially coming from you. How could I not love anything to do with you?"

That was perhaps a bit too far. Sherlock goes silent, mouth gaping like a fish, and forces the box into John's hands without making eye contact. The older man smiles at the lovely blush filling the younger man's cheeks.

John opens the paper around the box with careful, reverent fingers and slides the gift into his lap gently.

He can only behold it with awe. "Sherlock…" he murmurs.

"It's too much, isn't it?" he stresses too earnestly. "I've overstepped. I'm sorry, John, I really am-"

"No, no...Sherlock, it's perfect."

Tears soften John's focus on the gift in front of him and the box in his lap. Sherlock really has outdone himself. It's a shadowbox, one crafted out of thick cherry wood and polished glass. Inside is a picture of Mary and him (and Sherlock) on their wedding day, smiling widely at one another. There are pressed flowers from her bouquet, a strip of lace from her wedding gown, a necklace she wore. These are the pieces of their life together, the happy, bright cameos that only ache with remembrance and not with betrayal.

By the time John has looked at it too long, taken in every little detail Sherlock has attentively laid into the shadowbox, he's openly weeping and the detective is warily wrapping an arm around his shoulder at the same time as he picks up Rosie. She's startled and a little upset by her father's tears, but calms down as she's enveloped by the two men who love her most in the world.

"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you! I can- I can put this stuff back where I found it! I can even sew the lace back onto the wedding dress if you'd like-"

"Sherlock, hush. I love it. How could I not love it, you silly, silly man? Where did you even find most of this stuff? And since when can you _sew?"_

The genius ducks his head and squeezes John and Rosie a little closer. "I got most of it from your flat. Some of these things were left behind here at 221B. Others I simply..found. The pictures from your wedding I got from Lestrade, since the camera was impounded. I may have gotten some of it with the help of Mycroft…"

John chuckles and nuzzles his face into Sherlock's neck. He never in a million years would have guessed that this man was so thoughtful, so caring as to build him a keepsake of his late wife. He's this close to abandoning his inhibitions and kissing him square on those delightful cupid bows of his. But first he has to explain himself, has to show Sherlock that he can be just as caring and thoughtful and vulnerable.

"That'll be a wonderful gift for Rosie when she's older," he sniffs, wiping his eyes and grinning brightly at the genius.

"What? But that's...that's for you, to remember her-"

"I don't need a memorial to the woman who shot you, Sherlock. She's not so important to me as you. But is it going to help me when Rosie starts asking questions about her mother? Absolutely. This way she can have something to remind her of a mother who loved her and was a good person. Especially when she finds out the truth."

"That's- not what I expected, but...I'm glad you like it."

"I can't believe you're so _thoughtful_ , you daft man!"

Sherlock smiles softly, confusion lingering in the corners of his face but fading fast. "I'll let you believe whatever you want to, John."

And John is struck by the dopey look on the other man's face. Now's the time, he thinks. There are a few more presents to go, but there's never been a better time for his gift.

"I'll be right back, Sherlock. I've got your present up in my room."

He carefully extracts himself from Sherlock's lap and leaves Rosie in the capable hands of his best friend. The stairs pass under his feet two at a time as he flies toward the future.

Once John's grabbed the gift and got it to stay in one place, dammit, he looks right at Sherlock and starts his speech.

"I want you to be part of my family, Lock. You are already, actually, but I've noticed that you don't seem to think so. I want to show you how much you mean to me, how much you- you've always meant to me." His voice is cracking on the ginormous emotions crowding his throat, but he needs to get through this.

"I know I've hurt you before, and I'm terrified that I'll hurt you again. Rosie and I...We'll always be with you. I will never leave you again. Rosie already thinks of you like another father, and I..If you want to, I'd like you to be her other father. But that's- that's a discussion for another day. Hopefully soon, I'll say. For right now, though, I just want you to know, that I will never, ever leave you. And, as a symbol of this commitment:"

John bends down and picks up the squiggling gift.

"Sherlock, meet Hamish."

The puppy has dark brown and curly fur with crystal blue eyes - rather reminiscent of her new owner. She's absolutely as sweet as can be, and John is already smitten. He can tell that Sherlock is, too.

The genius - who already has tears pouring down his face - gasps and rushes forward to cradle the snuffling puppy. He hands Rosie to John as he smothers the baby dog with kisses.

"John, he's amazing! How precious!"

"She, actually. Figured you would like the name Hamish either way," John smirks. "She's an Irish Water Spaniel, and she's hypoallergenic. I'm given to believe she's hardworking and attentive, inquisitive and brave. Affectionate with those she loves." John smiles hugely, more in love with this man than he ever has been before.

Sherlock's eyes are shining with something beyond tears, beyond the emotion of the moment. The worry line around his eyes have melted away and he looks younger than he has in years.

Happier than he has in years.

"I can't believe you got me a dog."

"Well, I was hoping...Like I said earlier, I'm kinda hoping she can be _our_ dog."

And then Sherlock is crashing into John, Hamish and Rosie smushed happily between them. Rosie and Hamish seem delighted with each other, but the two men don't notice as their lips meet (finally, _finally_ ) in a sweet, chaste kiss. Despite its innocence, the kiss is almost overwhelming, delightfully consuming his whole heart until his entire soul belongs to the man he holds in his arms.

They pull away with a soft smack, and John is enraptured by the sight of Sherlock's lips reddened by kisses. Unable to resist, John presses a dozen more across the other man's face, smooching the tip of his nose, the high cheekbones, his high brow, the soft skin of his blushing red cheeks."It's a Christmas miracle…" John murmurs against his lips with a smile.

"What is?"

"Us finally pulling our heads from arses and getting together."

"You sound like you're quoting someone."

It's then that John remembers about the pool, but he decides that now's not the time. They can be angry together later, but right now he's perfectly content soaking up this first Christmas with his new family.

"I love you, Sherlock."

And he's nervous for about a second before he replies, "I love you, too, John."

Rosie giggles and Hamish yips happily, making John and Sherlock laugh with utter bliss.

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

((And Greg gets exactly what he wanted for Christmas: He's won the goddamned pool.))


End file.
